


Though The Legends Cannot Be Trusted

by burningqueen



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:01:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burningqueen/pseuds/burningqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Arthur would never admit it to anyone but himself, but he's always quite liked reading." Because Merlin/Arthur and Achilles/Patrocolus are basically the same ship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though The Legends Cannot Be Trusted

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a few years ago. I was reading the Iliad at the time.

Arthur would never admit it to anyone but himself, but he's always quite liked reading. Not so much histories and boring accounts of ancient wars and the political maneuverings of the Romans, but the fiction that the so-called civilized people from a peninsula almost a thousand miles away had brought with them when they had come to Albion, replacing the Old Religion with their own gods and setting up their own system of government, putting themselves in charge because they said so.

For four hundred years the Romans had dominated Albion and given the land all the stability it had. Then, when the political situation in Italia had become too shaky for anyone to care about their little far away province anymore, they had pulled out and gone home, leaving Albion in a power vacuum which gave way to the warring kingdoms still dominating well into the reign of Uther Pendragon. Arthur knows that there were many who still look back on the good old days with the kind of fondness that can only exist generations later and others who still resent the Romans for abandoning them and leaving them at the mercy of ruthless kings who only look out for themselves. But Arthur cannot rightfully resent the rise of the kingdoms for one day he will rule one, and that would not do. All Arthur really thinks of them is that he is thankful for the stories of war and of heroism and bravery, which were infinitely more exciting then the tales the bards brought with them to court around feast time.

Not too surprisingly, his favourites have always been the tales of Trojan War. Arthur would never want to be taken away from Camelot on a ten year campaign, he wouldn't wish that on any man (and all for the love of a woman! It's ridiculous, and Arthur would never in a million years go to war over such a thing.), but he found he could relate to the story of Achilles, a great and ferocious warrior who was just out to prove his honor and bring glory to his people. He's reading of Achilles now, imagining himself dragging Hector's lifeless body around the walls of Troy as even more revenge for the killing of his dear friend Patrocolus. Hector should not have slaughtered Patrocolus like that. Patrocolus should not have died, not like that.

In Arthur's mind, the memory of Patrocolus bears a striking resemblance to Merlin. It's not surprising. He's the natural counterpart. Arthur looks down at the boy's sleeping figure curled up against his own side and sighs. If someone were to ever hurt Merlin, well, Arthur isn't really sure what he'd do. But it wouldn't end well for the one who did the hurting.

\+ + +

"Don't, Merlin."

"Hmmm?" Merlin responds distractedly, putting the finishing touches on the application of Arthur's armor.

"Don't follow me and the other knights out to the battlefield," Arthur elaborates and, at Merlin suddenly pulling an expression of extreme indignation, quickly adds, "and don't try to tell me you won't, idiot, I've known you long enough now to know that you can hardly help it."

"Well," Merlin says cheerfully, all traces of indignation gone, "if I can't help it, then you might as well not even try and stop me."

"I mean it, Merlin," Arthur insists, voice stern and possibly louder than necessary. "You _will_ obey me and you _will_ stay here. I can't be worrying about you out there." He puts his hand on Merlin's arm and pats it rather awkwardly, hoping to convey his affection for the boy. But Arthur's never been particularly good at conveying affection. It's really a miracle he and Merlin ended up as anything more than a master and his servant in the first place, considering how rubbish they both are at discussing their emotions. (That's not really a bad thing though, Arthur reminds himself, it's not like they're a pair of girls.)

Merlin's expression makes it clear that he realizes how much Arthur cares and Arthur sees a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, this will be the one time his manservant listens to him and stays behind. He kisses Merlin quickly on the lips, with a passion suited for a much longer kiss, trying again to reinforce his message of _stay here, stay out of trouble_ and then turns and leaves to the room to join his men at the front door of the castle and ride out to battle.

\+ + +

Merlin doesn't listen to him and he doesn't stay behind. Of course. Arthur had been foolish to ever think that maybe he would in the first place.

The only time he sees Merlin during the fighting is when he happens to glance to his left and see the boy a few feet away, clashing swords with a soldier wearing Mercia's crest. As Arthur watches, the opponent's sword turns bright orange, like it's heating up, and the man drops it, burned. Arthur looks away in a rage and a panic. This just proves that Merlin is the first among idiots, to come out here and use magic so obviously! _Here_ , where anyone of his father's army could see him (the knights may be under Arthur's command, but there's no denying the fact that their loyalty lies with the king, not the prince).

In the middle of a swing of his own sword, a flash of white light momentarily blinds Arthur and the man he is dueling almost lands a blow. It only lasts a second, but for that one moment Arthur is far away, standing instead in a tent which he knows to be his own but isn't the one he slept in the night before. Merlin is there, wearing armor that is Arthur's but not any that he's worn in this life. Merlin is going into battle in Arthur's stead. He's under explicit orders to come back once he's done, but this is a memory, so Arthur remembers that this is the last time he'll see him alive. He wishes he had reached out and kissed the man one more time, but that's not how it happened and the man who looks like Merlin just walks out of the tent, only looking back once, with a small, reassuring smile on his face. He's not going to come back, but he never did listen to orders anyway.

Later, when the fighting is over (a victory for Camelot, and Arthur can return home with his head held high and without dread for his father's expression), he finds Merlin unconscious in the camp's impromptu medical tent with one of the women who'd tagged along with the army to care for the wounded leaning over him, trying to stem the bleeding from the gaping wound in the boy's side.

"Is he--?" Arthur asks in a panic, the thrill of the win fading fast.

"He's going to be okay, sire," says the reassuring voice of Sir Kay comes from behind him. It's a very poorly kept secret that Merlin is more to Arthur than just his manservant, or even just his friend and it is clear Kay knows how potentially devastating this is to his crown prince. "He's lost a lot of blood, but it is not a mortal wound."

"It's true, sire," said the maid behind Kay as she stood up from leaning over Merlin, "this boy will be shaky on his feet for a few days, but soon he'll be good as new. The dagger was just plunged right into his stomach, it didn't hit anything important, and now we've got the blood to clot."

One night, with Merlin in his arms as they're drifting off to sleep, it happens again. Suddenly, Arthur and Merlin are Achilles and Patrocolus. Afterwards, when they are returned to their own bed, Merlin's questioning gaze is looking up at Arthur. "You too?" Merlin asks and Arthur feels for the first time that maybe he's not alone in this after all.

Arthur just nods. "I..." it's hard to actually talk about this, to acknowledge that maybe it's true, maybe he's not going crazy. "I thought it was just a story."

Merlin nods into Arthur's neck and Arthur feels it rather than sees it. "I thought so too," he mumbles. "But now I think that maybe...maybe we _are_ them."

"How is that possible?"

"Have you ever read any Pythagoras, Arthur?" Merlin asks.

"I prefer fiction."

Merlin chuckles at that. "What, not enough excitement in your own life?"

"Shut up," Arthur mutters darkly, but with more than a hint of affection in his tone.

They lie there together in companionable silence for a few moments and then Merlin seems to remember himself and clears his throught. "Anyway," he says, "the Pythagoreans believed that there was a clear division between the soul and the body. After the body died, the soul would enter into another body and complete that life and then another and another forever."

"Did you get that in one of Gaius' books?" Arthur asks.

"I prefer science to fiction."

"So," Arthur begins, trying to wrap his mind around this new concept. "what you're saying is that the reason I keep having these weird flashes of memory things is that...I used to be Achilles."

"Yes." Merlin's voice is level and sure, obviously meant to keep Arthur calm.

"And you..." Arthur continues, still not quite believing it, "used to be Patrocolus."

"Yes."

"Woah." That's really all there is to say to something like this.

"Yeah," Merlin agrees. "I know."

They lie there in silence for a some time, Arthur can't tell how long it is because his head is hammering almost as much as his heart. He still can't quite believe it yet, but there's one thing he knows for certain. "Merlin," he says, voice deathly serious, "I don't ever want to to hear you've been killed. Do you understand me? Never."

Merlin nods against his chest. "I understand."

\+ + +

Neither Arthur nor Merlin ever fully remembers Achilles and Patrocolus. They only get flashes of their time together without any real cohesion. But Arthur knows that he had loved Patrocolus fiercely and that the viciousness with which he had killed Hector and defiled his body had been all but completely necessary and he knows that if anything were to happen to Merlin, the culprit would find a similar fate awaiting him.

\+ + +

It's years later, at Camlann. Mordred is there, and Morgana, and there's a big fuss because Arthur is lying in the mud, gasping for breath. This time the wound is mortal. And Merlin pushes his way through the small crowd forming around Arthur to come and kneel by his side.

"I told you not to come," Arthur says.

Merlin tries to smile but can't quite manage it. "You knew I wouldn't listen to you."

For a moment, they both just look at each other, not quite sure what to say. Then Merlin leans down and presses a quick, chaste kiss to Arthur's lips. "I'll see you again," he says. "This is not the end for us."

Arthur grimaces up at him, the pain is becoming too much. "It won't be the same," he tells the warlock.

"No," Merlin agrees, sad, "but that doesn't mean it'll be bad."

"I love you," Arthur whispers and then he is gone.

Merlin slowly gets to his feet and walks slowly back into Arthur's empty tent.

\+ + +

Holmes lies in bed, watching as Watson carries in the breakfast tray he'd gotten up to fetch from the kitchen. For a moment, he doesn't see Watson but instead a skinny boy with black hair and a red scarf standing with a different tray in a bedroom that is not Holmes'. But as soon as the vision came, it's gone and once again it's Watson standing in the doorway in his dressing gown. Holmes shakes his head and tries to ignore the strange visions which are becoming more and more frequent. He puts down his copy of Le Morte D'Arthur--he's always been fond of the Arthurian stories--and sits up a bit straighter.

"Ah, Watson," he says, "I had the most peculiar dream."

\+ + +

> Always in these friendships  
> one serves the other, one is less than the other:  
> the hierarchy  
> is always apparent, though the legends  
> cannot be trusted --  
> their source is the survivor,  
> the one who has been abandoned.  
> -from _The Triumph of Achilles_ by Louise Gluck.

 **finis.**


End file.
